


Me and Mine

by Agent_24



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Scent Kink, heightened senses, post-reveal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 05:17:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18088157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_24/pseuds/Agent_24
Summary: Drifter asks Shin to help him test a perk on a new sniper rifle. Things don't go quite as planned.





	Me and Mine

**Author's Note:**

> This was for one of the levianthanbathhouse kink memes! I took some creative liberties, but the request was "either one of them gets hit with temporary scenting abilities through handwavey alien bullshit, and gets mildly overwhelmed (horny) smelling themselves on the other fella as a result". Hope y'all like it (lmao)

“How is it?” Drifter purrs in his ear.

Or he means to purr it. To Shin, it seems so ungodly loud that he flinches. If Shin didn’t know his honeyed tones so well, he might think Drifter’d shouted.

“Too much,” he says with a scowl, reaching up to rub at his ear.

He’s laying on his stomach on the roof of a ruined apartment building in the EDZ, Drifter shouldered up against him and eagerly awaiting Shin’s opinion of a sniper rifle he’d been feverishly kitbashing for the last two weeks. All Drifter’d told him about it was that its perk was supposed to heighten awareness while the user was scoped.

Drifter frowns at his response. “Too much?” he repeats, making that annoyed face he makes when he’s trying to get Shin to be more chatty, which he says is like pulling teeth. Shin may or may not do this on purpose.

“This perk is giving me a headache,” Shin says. The rifle itself is flawless, smooth and steadier than most he’s fired, but he won’t tell Drifter that.

Drifter’s frown deepens, and he takes the rifle back, looking the scope up and down and all over. He doesn’t, Shin notes, hold it up to his eye.

Shin scowls. “You guinea-pigged me again, didn’t you?”

“Dunno what you mean, brother,” Drifter says, which means he absolutely did.

Shin sits up on his elbows and watches him take out a little pocket tool and start fiddling with the scope. The _tink!_ of the tool against gunmetal is...noticeable. He feels like there are specks of gravel poking through his armor.

“Gonna have to futz with it,” Drifter’s mumbling. “Perk shouldn’t be that strong —”

“Why’re you shouting?” Shin demands.

Drifter looks at him.

Everything smells too sharp. He can taste the lingering ether in the air from when a Guardian last ran through the area and decimated nearby Fallen. Shin asks, “How long is that perk supposed to last?”

Drifter frowns again. Shin can see too much detail, like he can count the individual hairs of the man’s beard from here, or the faint flecks of green in his blue eyes. “It’s supposed to go away the second you ain’t scoped,” he answers.

“Stop yelling,” Shin snaps, putting his hands over his ears.

The chatter of birds and insects are driving him insane. Everything seems too bright; Shin wonders if his helmet is malfunctioning somehow. It feels too tight, like he’s hyper-aware of every spot it touches on his face. He transmats it off to see if that helps at all. It doesn’t. Drifter’s looking at him like he’s lost his mind.

“You feelin’ alright?” Drifter asks, more curious than caring.

“I —” Shin starts. His stress is spiking for no reason. He feels like he’s got too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it. “I don’t think so.”

Drifter’s brows knit. Shin watches his eyelashes when he blinks. “You look sick,” Drifter says, and his voice is so goddamn _loud —_

Shin clambers to his feet. Drifter jumps a little at his sudden movement, but Shin can’t find it in him to care like he usually would. His ears are ringing. Everything’s so bright now, he can’t see a damn thing.

 _You’re freaking me out,_ Drifter’s voice comes distantly, and then Shin is in freefall.

* * *

He comes to halfway. He opens his eyes, or he makes an attempt, and catches a sliver of light before everything goes dark again. His cheek is smushed up against something smooth but pocked, leather maybe; he feels, absently, that he is moving, and everything smells like Drifter.

* * *

He comes to a second time with a bit of a chill on his cheeks, though the rest of him is swaddled in warmth.

Too much warmth.

Shin groans loudly and kicks off the layers of covers, peeling his eyes open to the dim light of the Derelict’s living quarters. Someone — his Ghost, likely — changed him into a pair of sweatpants while he was out. The ship rumbles louder than usual. The bed is empty; the little table shoved in the corner holds a person, who turns to watch him at the noise. Shin doesn’t bother making out any more detail than that. He sits up and everything sways, and the scrape of a chair against the floor rattles in his ears.

“Keep still,” Drifter says, and his weight makes the bed sink.

“Fuck you,” Shin mumbles, slumping back to the pillows. “What the fuck did you do to me?”

“It wasn’t on purpose,” Drifter scoffs. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m gonna puke.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

Shin pukes over the side of the bed and goes back to sleep.

* * *

He wakes a third time and can see normally. The rumble of the ship is a quiet comfort.

“Drifter,” Shin rasps, closing his eyes again.

“He’s busy,” huffs Jaren’s Ghost. “That game of his.”

Shin blinks blearily and rubs at his eyes. His body’s sore, feels like deadweight, like he hasn’t moved for too long. His throat hurts. “What time is it?” he asks.

“Ten past noon,” Ghost says. “You slept for two days.”

“Shit,” says Shin.

“Indeed,” Ghost says dryly. It clicks, reluctant, then says, “There’s water for you on the nightstand.”

Shin cranes his neck to look and struggles not to slam his hand onto the surface out of habit, like he does when he’s searching for lubricant. The water has a few mostly melted ice cubes in it, like it’s been sitting there a while. He is _trying_ to wrap his head around the fact that Drifter’s taken some measure of care with him and it isn’t working. He sips the water carefully at first, trying not to upset his stomach, but it feels so good on his dry tongue that he ends up chugging the whole thing.

“I think we should go,” Ghost says, “Before he gets back.”

Shin lowers the glass from his mouth and stares. He feels a little like trash, and everything still smells sharp. Admittedly, even moving very much is the last thing on his mind. And maybe he should be thinking about getting back to his own ship — or more importantly, getting off of Drifter’s — but... _admittedly_ , being in danger hadn’t really crossed his mind either.

He frowns at that.

Thinking the frown is a response, Ghost complains, “You’re not really thinking of staying another night.”

He is _now_. Shin figures that if it’s noon, he’ll probably be fine by time evening rolls around. If he’d already been here for two days, then...well. Might as well get something out of it.

Hell, he could just shoot himself and get rid of whatever lingering bullshit that perk did to him. Shin could smell cleaning supplies still, likely from when he’d emptied his guts, which he only very vaguely remembers, but he cansmell everything else, too: the gun oil, the leather, the noodles and chicken from dinner the night before, and _Drifter._

And himself. He needs a shower.

“One more night won’t kill me,” he says, shrugging his shoulders.

“It might,” Ghost snaps. “I swear, the likelihood of you getting into trouble triples around him.”

Shin does not say that he finds that fun. That’s an argument he doesn’t want to have when he’s still sporting a headache. And anyway, Jaren’s Ghost disappears in a little flicker of light, just as Shin hears footsteps.

“Look who’s up,” Drifter says, amusement coloring his voice. He steps into his room and and pulls a box of takeout from the little fridge — ramen, Shin catches, then says, “How you feelin’, hotshot?”

Shin rubs at his eyes again. “Like I wanna kick your ass,” he mumbles, and takes a little bit of morbid pleasure in the way Drifter pauses for a split second, chopsticks full of noodles halfway to his mouth. “I’m not tryin’ any more guns for you, you walking shitshow.”

Drifter just snorts. “Nobody _made_ you in the first place.”

This leaves Shin mildly embarrassed. “You could be a little more sympathetic, considering it’s your fault I was laid out for two days,” he huffs.

Drifter’s mouth curls up, just slightly. “If it makes you feel any better,” he says around his noodles, “I fixed it.”

“It doesn’t,” Shin says dryly.

Drifter looks like he might laugh but doesn’t, and instead moves to sit on the bed and hands Shin the box of takeout. Shin wonders for just a moment if Drifter’s offering him food, and takes it out of sheer surprise, but Drifter just leans into his space and pulls Shin’s eyelid up with his thumb and looks at his pupils.

“Effects gone?” Drifter asks.

 _There he goes with that Warlock shit again,_ Shin muses, pursing his lips, and he wonders if Drifter’s been taking notes on his condition the whole time. “You could’ve just shot me,” he mutters, batting Drifter’s hands away. “Would’ve saved me the trouble.”

“Hey, brother, I asked if you wanted to be shot,” Drifter objects, reaching for his takeout again. “You said you wanted to sleep.”

Shin has no memory of this. Frankly, he’s shocked Drifter didn’t do it anyway. Maybe he wanted to avoid Shin’s wrath coming down too quick. Shin scowls and holds the ramen out of Drifter’s reach, muttering a grouchy “Fuck off,” before he starts shoveling it into his own mouth.

“Greedy!” Drifter exclaims, but he doesn’t fight him for it; instead, he just gets up to dig in the fridge again, and pulls an identical box forth. Shin wonders (just briefly) if he’d ordered extra.

“You owe me big,” Shin says, swallowing his mouthful and jabbing the chopsticks in Drifter’s direction.

Drifter sits back down on the bed and grins, catlike and wicked. “I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, with a casual air that is really anything but, and Shin feels a blush creeping over his cheeks.

“Make it up tonight then,” he grumbles.

Drifter’s brows shoot up. “Greedy,” he says again, in a different tone this time.

Shin is starving after not eating for two days. But there’s a shift between them then, like a switch flipped, and Shin feels like a fool about it but knows they aren’t quite going to make it to _tonight_. Drifter’s looking at him like he’s something to eat and it’s near enough to make him shiver.

He scarfs down his ramen.

“Got someplace to be, brother?” Drifter asks, laughter in his voice. Shin just closes up his ramen box and takes aim, tosses it in the trashcan from the bed, then gets up and heads for the bathroom. He pretends not to see Drifter reach out to steady him when he sways a little bit.

“Mouthwash is above the sink,” Drifter calls after him, head tilted back and noodles dangling from his chopsticks.

“I know where it’s at,” Shin mutters under his breath. He looks at himself in the mirror a moment, scowling — bags under his eyes, stubble growing out too long, hair a mess, and the faint imprint of the pillow’s wrinkles on his cheek — then splashes his face with water and opens the mirror up, taking his toothbrush and the mouthwash from one of the little shelves and brushing the sick taste out of his mouth.

When he’s done, he leans against the doorway, combing his fingers through his hair. Drifter looks at him. Shin gives him a moment to make his evaluations, then heads towards the bed with purpose. Drifter huffs, grins, puts his half-finished ramen down by the foot of the bed and starts kicking off his boots. Shin’s latched onto his neck before he gets the second one off.

“Hey, easy —” Drifter says, hissing out a breath when Shin bites him. “Kinda eager for it, ain’t you?”

He is eager. It’s got nothing to do with the faint memory of Drifter carrying him out of the EDZ or the fact that Drifter _may or may not_ have been keeping an eye on him while he was out, but Drifter hasn’t asked, and so Shin won’t insist on it. Instead, he undoes the belt at Drifter’s waist with deft fingers. A Trust falls to Drifter’s lap, all smooth dark metal and old wood. Drifter’s hand closes around it even while Shin nudges his tongue into his mouth, and Shin notes with no small delight that his finger doesn’t even go for the trigger while he drops it by his boots.

Drifter laughs against Shin’s mouth when Shin tugs his robes open. It raises the hair on the back of Shin’s neck. “Silent treatment, huh?” Drifter teases. “Mad at me?”

“Should be,” Shin mutters, biting his lip.

“Got more important things to think on?”

Shin thinks it’s unfair that Drifter only seems to know exactly how much Shin likes him when they’re about to fuck. In answer, he hooks his left arm around Drifter’s waist and tosses him over his right hip. Drifter lands on the bed and bounces.

Shin’s halfway to moving when he realizes Drifter’s pupils are blown wide, knuckles white in the sheets like his fingers are searching for that Trust he abandoned on the floor.

 _Too fast,_ Shin realizes with a flare of disappointment. _Startled him._ And so he reaches, with careful slowness, to tug on the hem of Drifter’s pants. “Help me out,” he says.

Drifter watches him a minute, but he lifts his hips and shimmies his pants down to his thighs. Shin pulls them the rest of the way off and crawls between Drifter’s legs, movements steady and easy.

“You’re jumpy,” he observes.

Drifter grins. Somehow, it still comes off nervous. Maybe Shin just knows his face too well. “Nah,” he says, sinking down against the bed the further Shin crawls up his body. “Think you’re seein’ things, brother. Sure you ain’t still sufferin’ side effects?”

 _Cute,_ Shin thinks with only mild amusement, _still silvertonguin’ me._ “Think you’re full of shit,” he returns. Drifter opens his mouth to give some retort, and Shin chooses then to reach down and stroke him.

If he smirks when Drifter lets out a little strangled noise instead, it’s only a _little_ smirk.

To hide it, Shin leans over Drifter’s body, nosing at his jaw ‘till Drifter gives him space and pressing biting kisses to his throat. Drifter jumps at each nip, but the way his breath hitches makes Shin think that in this case, it’s a good thing. Shin pauses to take a breath and the inhale has him smelling _everything_ , the leather and the gun oil, the soap Drifter uses, the beginnings of sweat and sex, Drifter’s natural scent underneath it all and —

And…

It’s faint, half-washed away with Drifter’s most recent shower but lingering with some kind of abstract permanence, the way a lived-in house smells, or a set of armor that’s been bled in too many times. Shin would think, ordinarily, that catching this smell would mean he needed a shower, and that isn’t untrue now, but this...

This is _his_ scent, clinging to Drifter’s skin like a fiercely stubborn lover.

“What?” Drifter rasps.

Shin can’t say what. If he said _what,_ he might die of embarrassment, even though it’s all lit a fire under him. He can’t explain that Drifter smelling like him makes him want to goddamn _sing,_ not without using big words like _hope_ and _mine_ and _love,_ and Shin isn’t ready for all that, not yet. But it burns hot in his chest, hot enough to almost choke him, and all he manages in his desperation is a breathy plea of _Drifter_ before he tongues at the man’s pulse and rolls his hips down. Drifter groans, arches into him, drags nails down Shin’s back, and Shin aches for it.

Drifter’s hands grope at his hips, directionless and mostly useless beyond getting Shin’s pants halfway off his ass. Shin sits up, flushed and clumsy while he wrestles them the rest of the way off, careless in the way he drops them to the floor and purposeful in the way he reaches towards Drifter’s table for the lube.

Drifter’s brows go up. “Not gonna fight me for it?” he asks.

Shin frowns. “I wouldn’t call the tusslin’ we do _fighting,_ ” he grumbles, popping the cap on the bottle and wetting his fingers.

Drifter snorts. “Well it sure ain’t gentle caressing,” he said, then hisses when Shin presses careful fingers into him. “You’re in some kinda mood, s’what I think.”

“Wonder why that might be,” Shin says dryly.

Drifter bites his lip to stop himself from making a noise. Shin leans down to steal it from him, licking at his bottom lip and nipping there till the sound comes loose, hooks his fingers just so and smiles against Drifter’s mouth when the man jolts.  
  
“Tease,” Drifter accuses weakly.

“That’s me,” Shin agreed softly.

He does his best to stay focused. As much as he likes Drifter’s skillful hands, he’s always liked the way Drifter shudders and groans under his touch just as much, and the easy way Drifter squirms now has him wondering. Was he lonely while Shin slept for over forty-eight hours? Was he worried? It’s foolish to entertain those thoughts, dangerous even, but Shin allows himself this hope, just this once, and it’s enough to drive him insane.

Shin withdraws his hand and ducks his head to hide a smile while Drifter curses, fishing around in the covers for the lube again and slicking himself up. He looks up to meet Drifter’s eyes and finds that pretty blue gaze flitting all over his body with hazy interest, pupils blown wider when Shin leans over him.

“You need more?” Shin asks, late.

“Than you?” Drifter asks after a beat, blinking like he’d been distracted.

“Fuck,” Shin breathes.

He buries his nose in Drifter’s neck as he pushes into him, breathes in his own scent on Drifter’s skin again. Drifter groans, arms snaking around Shin’s waist and over his shoulder, one hand already tugging at his hair. Shin’s hips jerk in response, and Drifter’s breath hitches.

“Easy on me,” Shin pleads. Drifter’s fingers loosen, but only a little.

Shin rolls his hips slow at first, for his own sake. Heat is already rolling low in his stomach; he’s not lasting awful long, and he knows it, so he has to make this good with what little time he’s got. He hooks a hand under Drifter’s thigh, hikes it up by his hip and yanks him a little closer, rewarded by a strangled noise out of Drifter’s mouth. Drifter’s fingers bump along Shin’s spine and Shin rolls his hips a little faster now, settles on a rhythm that has Drifter panting and Shin wants him to —

He slides a hand under the small of Drifter’s back, pulls him into a sharper arch. Drifter’s cock presses against Shin’s belly.

“ _Shin,_ ” Drifter gasps, a little whisper of a thing.  
  
Shin bites into Drifter’s shoulder so he won’t finish too soon. The cry of pleasure he gets for his efforts doesn’t help. He wants Drifter to come first and knows in the back of his head that he’s not gonna make it that long. He pulls Drifter’s earlobe between his teeth, worries a damning bruise on the man’s throat, reaches between them to stroke him in time with the roll of his hips. He can smell the leather and the gun oil and the soap and the sweat and sex and Drifter and _himself_ all over Drifter’s body and his orgasm hits him _hard_.

Drifter laughs. Shin waits for his vision to clear and then kisses him hard, swallows up that sound he loves while he strokes Drifter’s dick again and thumbs over the head, licks between Drifter’s teeth until Drifter shudders underneath him.

“Shit,” Drifter murmurs, dazed.

Shin holds himself up on shaky arms and looks around for something to wipe the come off Drifter’s chest. After a pause, he yanks off Drifter’s headband, knocked lopsided from all the movement.

“Come _on_ ,” Drifter objects, but doesn’t move to stop him. “I got a match in a half-hour, bastard.”

Shin pulls out with a grimace and flops to the bed, cheek smushed against Drifter’s shoulder. “Cancel it,” he mutters, crossing an arm over Drifter’s stomach to rub circles on his hip with his thumb.

“ _Cancel_ it?”

“Cancel it,” Shin repeats, tugging to press him a little more flush.

“Greedy,” Drifter sighs, overdramatic, and Shin reaches up to turn his jaw and kiss him.

* * *

“If you’re sure there’s no lasting side effects —”

“I’m fine,” Shin assures. He settles into the cockpit of his ship, scrolling through messages on his hud. There’s a nice bounty waiting from the Vanguard...good pay. “Promise. S’all worn off.”

Jaren’s Ghost clicks. “Alright.” A pause. “You left your cloak.”

Shin hums.

“You look weird without it,” Ghost says, and Shin snorts while it takes another out of his inventory for him. Another pause. “Why are these sweatpants in here?”

Shin looks up. “What do you mean?”

“They aren’t yours. You don’t have Omolon pants.”

Shin checks his inventory. He hadn’t looked at the logo on the hip when he’d woken up. He’d been more preoccupied with getting out of them at the time. They are not, in fact, his.

“I thought you put me in these,” Shin says dumbly.

Ghost clicks with mild disapproval. “Not me.”

Shin tugs his hood a little lower. Pointless, really, when his helmet hides his face already.


End file.
